


Sway

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baseball as Metaphor, Chicago Cubs, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious Ethics, Golf, Humor, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Not the madness but the method, Slumps and unslumps, Was supposed to be a PWP but plot happened, fun with power dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: Two outs. Jason’s on third. Vic’s on second. All Ian has to do isput the ball in the air, lift it a whole five inches over someone’s outstretched glove, and the tie will be broken. It’ll begreat.It’ll becathartic.It’ll mean his batting average willfinallygo over the 0.188 that it was this morning. It’ll mean he will be another hit removed from his miserable start to the season in Iowa.Instead, he’s late, he hits it with the wrong part of his bat, and he pops it up weakly, maybe thirty feet into the air. It’s an easy catch, the tie drags on, and it’s time for WGN to run commercials.God fucking damn it.





	Sway

**Sunday.**

Ian’s struck out twice already. Mikolas is a _tough_ nut to crack even on a bad day, and the Cardinals are lucky to have him. 

But Kyle’s got his changeup working today _,_ and soon it’s Ian’s turn to try again, in the bottom of the sixth inning, with the game still a nail-biting, nothing-to-nothing stalemate.

Two outs. Jason’s on third. Vic’s on second. All Ian has to do is _put the ball in the air_ , lift it a whole five inches over someone’s outstretched glove, and the tie will be broken. It’ll be _great_. It’ll be _cathartic_. It’ll mean his batting average will _finally_ go over the 0.188 that it was this morning. It’ll mean he will be another hit removed from his miserable start to the season in Iowa.

Instead, he’s late, he hits it with the wrong part of his bat, and he pops it up weakly, maybe thirty feet into the air. It’s an easy catch, the tie drags on, and it’s time for WGN to run commercials.

_God fucking damn it._

“It’s okay.” Joe calls out as Ian hurries past him, and past his teammates, through the dugout. “It’s really okay.”

“You’re _okay_ , Ian. You’re _okay._ ” Joe’s voice is almost a warning. He starts to say something else, but it grows distant as Ian heads down the steps to the clubhouse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s still gripping his bat.

Down the hall and way further inside, where a dim fluorescent light buzzes overhead, Ian glares at the painted white cinder-block, trying to will his breathing to some slower pace. To dull the edge of his anger to something that’s not so _scary and cutting_.

It doesn’t work. Ian yells out every bad word he can think of and smashes his bat against the wall with an ear-splitting crack.

Nothing’s changed.

It’s there in the Tribune, the Sun-Times, and over the airwaves on The Score.

_It’s hard to judge someone when they’re only twenty-four, but we have to wonder if our expectations need to be tempered at this point._

It’s there on the blogs, the tweets, and the fan-sites.

_While certainly capable of playing multiple positions, he doesn’t seem to be a standout at any of them. Clumsy feet in center. Rushed throws at second._

It’s there in the analytics, the statistics, the wins-over-replacement numbers that are barely positive.

_Seemingly mired in a year-long slump and lacking plate discipline, he lacks the utility and veterancy of Zobrist, the flash of Baez; the consistency of Bryant. He doesn’t have the defensive prowess of Almora, the charisma of Rizzo, or, shit, even a tenth of Heyward’s contract! 30% K-rate! Trade him for pitching!_

_How can he be making such_ stupid _errors playing the infield?_

_How can he not even be hitting at the fucking Mendoza line the first week of May?_

_How can he be a first-round pick, the youngest player on the team, and already be a_ bust?

And it’s _always_ there in Ian’s head, a chorus of doubt and endless worry. _All_ of it.

***

The Cubs lose.

After the game, Joe leans back, feet planted irreverently upon his desk. He’s wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and a bucket hat, like he’s gotten lost on the way to a Grateful Dead reunion tour.

Ian is listening to Joe’s lecture, still wearing his uniform, a long smudge of green up his left thigh from diving after a ball. _It was a goddamn double._

“I keep saying, it’s all in your head. You’re a great athlete. You’re ridiculously dedicated. You’re just _stuck in your_ _head_ , Ian.”

“Am I?” Ian says back.

“Well yeah. Of course you are. We just gotta get you _out of there_. Remember what I told you a long time ago about baseball being temperamental? If it’s ten percent temper, the other ninety percent is…”

“Mental.” Ian forces a smile, as if he _hasn’t_ heard Joe make this dumb joke a dozen times before.

“And it’s about time you _smiled._ You go up to bat, and it’s like you’re going to a funeral.” Joe nods.“Just chill. Nobody’s dead. We’re in first by four games, it’s - what day is today?”

“May 4th.”

“Shit.” Joe laughs. “I thought it was the third, but whatever. My point is, it’s still early, and slumps don’t last forever.”

“It feels like it _is_ , though.” Ian sighs and puts his head in his hands. ”It’s like…like no matter what I _do,_ I…”

_He’s always half-a-second early. Or half-a-second late. Thinking about everyone watching, seizing up, with his knees buckling under the pressure, his reflexes numb and inefficient. Comparing himself to his teammates and always falling short_ somewhere _. Being a superstitious idiot and wondering what spirit he’s pissed off this time, or if he’s legitimately jinxed. Knowing the other shoe’s going to drop eventually._

Ian _feels_ it, but even in front of someone as laid-back as Joe, he’s having an impossibly hard time describing it beyond saying _I suck_ and _this_ _sucks,_ which just sounds nondescript and self-pitying. So instead, as he usually does, he defaults to staring at the floor and gesticulating vaguely with his hands. He did this in front of the hitting coaches, he did this in front of the mental skills guy, and now he’s doing it to Joe, sitting here, staring at some hill he can’t just mount and _get over_. _Again._

“Still feeling clammed up?”

“Yeah.”

“So what can I do?” Joe asks. “How can we get you through _whatever_ this is, Ian?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know at this point.”

“Shit.” Joe blows out a hard breath. “D’ya think talking to Theo might help?”

***

**Monday.**

One of the things Ian learned quickly about the Cubs is that _everything_ is about transparency and accountability. Sometimes it seems that there’s not a single goddamn thing in Wrigleyville that’s a secret. When _something’s_ going on, even the custodial staff knows it. The whole organization seems to function by one big, cobbled-together honor system, because Theo is the president, and that’s the way _Theo_ wants it. _Especially important here in Chicago_ , Joe had told him, _with our long history of corruption and shady back-room shit. We’re not like that._

Joe’s right, and so when someone’s on the team’s in a funk, for whatever reason, every bartender on Clark or Sheffield could tell you all about it in nauseatingly explicit detail. Ian’s sure if he walked into one of these places, someone would point to him and go “ _Hey, aren’t you the shy one who’s stuck on the interstate and can’t talk about it?_ ”

In New York or Los Angeles, a prolonged, agonizing slump and repeated defensive butchery gets you an immediate plane ticket to Triple-A. In Chicago, you might still go to Triple-A, but long before that, you go to Joe’s office, because Joe is remarkable at _solving problems_. Joe’s Sigmund Freud, if Freud drove a van from the 1970s. But if Joe can’t fix it, Theo usually can.

When Jason lost his swing, Theo called _Barry Bonds_ to be Jason’s personal batting coach. Watched as they re-built all of his mechanics from the ground up. Bought them both steak dinners for ten days because Jason had mentioned in passing once that he really liked his steak. _Ten fucking days!_

Tommy had a nervous breakdown and went home to New Jersey. Obviously, some of these details didn’t make their way out to the Des Moines club where Ian was, but it ended with Theo driving out to Jersey to get him, and apparently getting a speeding ticket somewhere in Pennsylvania.

Then there was Carl’s whole problem where he’d psych himself out on the mound after a bad strike call and lose all his command. Cursing out the ump, hitting guys in the elbow at ninety-eight; the whole shot. Carl got sent to a psychologist (and in all fairness, he _needed_ it). But then Theo went _with_ Carl to his appointments, and it’s rumored that somebody cried, but the reports are conflicting as to exactly _whom_.

A lot of people call Theo’s methods unorthodox, because the President of Baseball Operations _isn’t supposed to do all this_. The team president - or the General Manager, depending on the team and the job title - isn’t supposed to wear disguises or gorilla suits and hook up an amp and play the guitar in the players’ lounge. The president is supposed to sit in his office, phone glued to his ear, and remain emotionally unplugged, because it’s business, and _business_ and _feelings_ are supposed to be mutually exclusive. The president isn’t supposed to come down to the dugout, and bullshit with the manager and the bench coaches, and and watch batting practice before every single game like he’s just nothing more than a well-dressed member of the team. He’s not supposed to be some creator-and-destroyer demigod who just happens to give advice and second chances and then get utterly soaked and shit-faced with everyone when celebrating a playoff berth.

But it’s different in Chicago, and it’s _like_ this in Chicago, because it _worked_. Being in the minors, Ian didn’t get to feel the full brunt of _that_ , but it was some drawn-out affair involving curses and goats, and people were so overjoyed they were jumping from lamp-posts and throwing themselves into the Chicago river. The Cubs were their boys, and Theo was the young genius who hammered the universe back into alignment. Proof that nice guys don’t always finish second, or something. Theo was drunk for a _month_ , and your president’s not supposed to do that either.

So it’s not _really_ a surprise when Ian’s phone buzzes early the following day and wakes him up.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey Ian. Hope you don’t mind the call. I got your new number from Joe.” Ian recognizes his voice.

“Uh, yeah, er…I don’t mind.” Ian quickly sits up in bed and tries to rub the grogginess out of his eyes. “Sorry…just…woke up here. What’s goin’ on, Mr. Epstein?”

“That’s okay.” Theo starts. “Listen, I talked to Joe about your particular set of problems late last night. And you know I’d like to help any way I can.”

“Appreciate it.”

There are a couple seconds of silence. Ian clears his throat and lets himself lie back down.

“So, Joe tells me you like golf.”

“Yeah. Couple tournaments in the off-season. I play a little. Like trash, mostly.”

“Well, I’ve managed to get a clear schedule today. Some minor miracle. You wanna play like trash at North Shore today? With me? It might help to get away from Clark and Addison and get some actual fresh air for a while.”

“…What about the Marlins game?”

“Ian, it’s seven o’clock in the morning.” Theo laughs. “The game’s in thirteen hours. I meant we play at _ten_.”

“I guess. Sure.”

“Great! I’ll text you the rest of the details?”

“Okay.”

Ian expects the conversation to end as quickly as it began, but Theo doesn’t hang up right away.

“One more thing, real quick.” Theo says. “…‘Mr. Epstein?’ _Really?_ You’ve known me for like, four years.”

***

At first, Ian is some bizarre hybrid of excited and intimidated. It’s not like Ian _hasn’t_ talked to Theo before, including in some pretty serious contexts, but right now, nothing’s occurring in a vacuum, and he’s not quite sure what to expect.

May, with its bright sunshine and flowering trees, is perhaps the most beautiful month for Chicago’s North Shore. Such is the ten o’clock tee-time at the North Shore Country Club, all immaculate greens and heavy willows and a _lot_ of high-status people. It’s the kind of place where one might see the starting center for the Bulls playing right next to whatever rich donors are currently pouring into Northwestern’s coffers.

Ian’s played here exactly once before, but he can’t remember the layout of the place for the life of him, and he’s standing around gauchely when Theo finds him.

“I was starting to think you ended up in Wisconsin or something.” Theo says, and they shake hands and throw their clubs into an unoccupied golf cart.

One of the things that Ian has always found so interesting about Theo is that absolutely _no_ part of him seems to reflect his age. He’s considerably older than Ian, more than fifteen years, definitely, but other than a little grey starting to creep in around his temples, he doesn’t look it. He’s well-built, the exact same height as Ian, wearing a sweater over a collared shirt, and he’s got his shades on and _gel_ spiking up his hair in the front. He looks more like an Ivy League fraternity pledge than one of the most powerful men in Chicago.

There’s something oddly comforting about it.

And he doesn’t act his age either, talking a mile a minute and driving the cart the way a fifteen-year-old caddy might on his first day.

And that’s…not-so-comforting.

They don’t crash the cart, and make it through the first couple of holes with light and uneventful small-talk. Ian hasn’t played in a while and is soon an embarrassing six over par, and Theo isn’t much better, but seems totally unfazed by it. At the head of green on the fourth hole, where he feels _just_ undone enough to change the subject, Ian decides to talk about his actual problems. Or maybe just be _awkward_.

“So am I in trouble or something?”

“ _God_ no.” Theo says, and he’s got just enough of a smile to make Ian realize he’s probably being paranoid. “Nobody’s ever _in trouble_ in your situation. Joe and I are just, well…pretty concerned about this.”

“You know, I think Joe’s right.”

“Joe’s usually right, but in what way?”

“How I’m in my head. It’s like I’m blocked in my brain somewhere. It’s stressing me out.” Ian starts. “It’s this…this brick wall.”

“Go on.”

“Your shot?” Ian asks. 

“Yours.” Theo says.

It’s one of those holes where there isn’t really a fairway, just a gently sloping hill and some bushes, and Ian’s shot is a pitiful duck-hook right off the course, like his life has been reduced to a collection of _bad swings all over._

“It’s so stupid.” Ian snorts. “All of this is so _stupid_. I don’t even know what I can say about it, or how _to_ talk about it. I’m in a funk because I literally can’t hit a ball. It’s so simple, but it’s…”

“Why?” Theo stops him.

“Why can’t I hit?”

“No. Why are you _trivializing_ what you do like that?” Theo emphasizes by whacking his ball (in a direction much straighter than Ian’s). “You’re not going to make yourself feel better by putting yourself down.” 

“What, you’ve never done that?” Ian half-grins. “Gone ‘ _man, this is all really dumb_ ’?”

“Well, yeah. But I usually just break stuff in my office when everything’s dumb.” Theo says, “I mean, I could _try_ to trivialize it, but it wouldn’t do me any good.”

“So try.” Ian tells him. He’s not sure if he’s actually seeking insight, or if he just wants to _break the tension_ at this point. This whole day is ridiculous and confusing, and it’s turning into one of the the worst rounds of golf he’s ever played, and he’s sure Theo’s judging him in _some_ way, like he’s a specimen to be dissected and analyzed.

“Okay. My job is basically like chess, where I just move little pieces around trying to get the upper hand. But just like with you, it’s really a hell of a lot messier than that.”

“Why’s that?” Ian leans on his club.

“C’mon, because you guys aren’t just little fuckin’ pieces, Ian. It’s not all just numbers and stats and all that nerdy stuff. I think the first thing you learn in baseball is that our game is played by _actual humans_ , and actual humans have stupid things like _feelings_ and _free will_ , and being human makes everything _annoying_.”

Now Ian actually does laugh.

“No, I’m _totally_ serious here.” Theo says. “ _You’re_ human too, which means we have to acknowledge that sometimes you’re allowed to slump, and feel, and, well… feel bad about slumping, you know?”

Ian freezes, thinks for a second, and gazes blankly off into the distance.

“And you’re so self-critical.” Theo continues. “Come on. I _know_ you are.”

***

**Tuesday.**

Monday night’s game is _catastrophic_. It’s chilly, and José walks five guys in three innings. Then the bullpen doesn’t seem to know what sport they’re supposed to be playing. Monty can’t get an out, Carl can’t get an out, Randy can’t get an out; the whole affair drags on until well past ten. The Cubs lose 9-3, in a mess of broken bats and bloop hits and busted rundowns. The scorecard probably looks like slow-pitch softball.

Ian has the night off, but he’s not exempt from participating _somehow_. So he watches, popping gum and chewing seeds, his shoulders straight and his back stiff like a steel plate. He watches Jason throw someone out at third from two-hundred and fifty feet in right, watches the perfect precision of Kris’ swing; watches Javy and Daniel turn two double plays like they’re not even thinking about it. Ian is the silent observer, the _might have been_ , the _not quite there_.

He remembers what Theo told him; he lets himself _feel_ , and feel all of it. He feels _terrible_.

After the game, Ian goes straight to bed, tired and world-weary. He feels heavy. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, the bad dream, the uncomfortable cold sweat, picking up his phone in the middle of the night and texting _I’m stuck, Theo, I’m so stuck_ until he wakes up on Tuesday morning and he’s got two texts back.

_I know. And I’m so sorry._

_Want to play the back nine today?_

So they do. It’s warmer today, still and overcast, and there are fewer people out. It’s also _calmer_ somehow, and whatever activation barrier followed Ian around yesterday has come down just enough that he can see over it. And talk a little. Just a few words. Nothing out of character.

Ian talks about his teammates, mostly, in a way that’s light-hearted and respectful. He talks about 2016, and how he wishes he could have been _there_ , _in_ it and _feeling_ it with the rest of them.

At first, Theo just listens.

Then Ian talks about coming up in 2017. _Post-facto._ 2017, where the clock _reset_ itself, where the pressure came _back,_ and in the end, they all fell _just_ short. 2018, where the clock kept ticking, ticking further away from 2016, and he kept striking out over and _over,_ swinging at _everything,_ and they fell short again. He talks about more time elapsing, clock-watching and internalizing it, that endless desire to see all zeroes again, and being powerless, somehow.

At least, that’s what Ian _wants_ to say, but he’s pretty sure instead he’s just gibbering and waving his hands and trying to court sympathy.

Ian’s got a birdie going on the eleventh hole. He lines up to putt, but his hands are _shaking_ , and he misses the shot.

“Well, _that_ all went south in a hurry.” Ian growls.

Theo is watching him with a confused expression, and after a pause, he says,“…are you aware that you’re doing that?”

“Doing _what?_ ”

“Okay, take the same shot again, and focus on what you just told me about 2017.”

“Do I get a mulligan?” Ian asks.

“No. You botch this one, I’m scoring it with permanent marker.” Theo smiles back, grin easy and slightly gap-toothed. “Of _course_ you get a mulligan for psychology purposes. Come on.”

“ _Psychology purposes_?”

“Psychology purposes.” Theo says, a bit more declaratively.

Ian again sets up to putt, gets his feet where he wants them, and he’s just about to hit the ball when Theo stops him.

“You’re really not aware of it?”

“Aware of what?”

“You…don’t breathe.” Theo tells him. Ian just bursts out laughing, because at some point here, ridiculous and confusing have crossed over into downright silly. For a minute, he imagines himself up to bat, literally turning blue at the plate before keeling over in front of a home crowd of forty-one thousand. Of course he’s _breathing_. He’s alive. How can he _not_ be?

“No, really, when you focus under stress, you actually _stop_ breathing. You’re not getting any oxygen and it’s…probably screwing with everything upstairs.”

“Huh.” Ian says.

“Try again. Don’t think. Just breathe. In your nose, out your mouth, like you’re just blowing all this _nonsense_ away. You got it. You got it.” Theo repeats, “It’s _all_ nonsense. It’s all psychology. You got it.”

“ _Huh._ ” Ian has to repeat to prevent himself from sliding into self-reflective navel gazing.

_Okay, so Ian didn’t exactly have Theo pegged for some kind of master of golf zen, and it seems_ incongruous _somewhere. But also relevant, and at the same time wholly unsurprising, but Ian doesn’t know exactly why._

***

The game is tied 2-2 at the bottom of the seventh. Miami has a lefty on the mound, and Ian’s going at him from the left side.

The damn _left side_ , which is what _got him sent to freaking Iowa_ to start the season. Not like he’s had much success tonight against the right-hander who started the game, either. He’s 0 for 3, although two of his outs were at least hit hard - just right _at_ someone.

The first pitch is right in the middle of the plate, but at approximately Mach 3, and Ian stares at it. The second is the exact same. He feels that too-familiar, behind-in-the-count early frustration starting to nip at his heels.

The third pitch is high and away. The fourth misses in the same spot.

2-2. Nobody out, nobody on.

The fifth pitch has a funky spin on it. It breaks way too soon, drops like a stone three feet in front of the plate, and pings over the catcher’s head.

So Ian tries to breathe, slowly and deliberately. 3-2. 3-2. He becomes oddly aware of his feet, his stance, his grip, his teammates watching from the dugout, the guys watching in the bullpen while warming up, of Javy watching from the on-deck circle, Theo watching from _wherever_ , and then of the thousands in the stands and the millions elsewhere. But he’s focusing, maybe hyper-focusing, on _Theo_ for some reason, and soon he’s psyching himself out and fighting it. So Ian breathes, faster and faster, until, _shit_ , he’s hyperventilating, feeling around five inches tall, and praying to the Baseball Gods, beseeching the whole pantheon’s worth of them _for something to actually hit. No atheists in foxholes, or something._

The sixth pitch isn’t even close and nearly nails the umpire. Ian sets his bat down and canters to first.

Javy’s way too fired up, swinging and missing at curveballs in the dirt. 

Ian leads off, feet in the starting blocks, Javy chases what would’ve been ball four, and Ian runs.

It’s an offline throw, and Ian belly-flops into second like a plane skidding off the runway.

It’s right when his hand touches the base that Ian realizes that he’s still mildly embarrassed about the texts he had sent the previous night.

***

**Wednesday.**

Ian doubles in the eighth. The Cubs win 4-3, in extras, when Willy walks with the bases loaded. Milwaukee implodes late in Pittsburgh, and the Cubs are five games up.

This time, Theo meets Ian at the Glen Club at 11:30. It’s Ian’s choice, just someplace random he saw in golf magazine, and Ian immediately likes the Glen Club more than North Shores. Less of the washroom attendants and stuffy high-society decorum, and more people just having fun playing golf on a nice day in early May. 

It rained the previous night, and everything is spectacularly green, with all the colors seeming over-saturated. The birds are twittering away, the magnolias are full of bees, and the water hazards at this place are…extra-hazardous. Ian’s not _completely_ sucking in this round, but a ball sliced into the pond is still a ball sliced into the pond.

And Theo can’t - and won’t - stop laughing at him.

“What?” Ian asks, teasingly. “You did the exact same damn thing! They designed it that way. Bottom two feet of it’s probably all balls.”

“No, the other thing. Before that. That stuff about what people say on Twitter and in the Trib.”

“I read it sometimes.” Ian cocks his head a little. “Why?”

Theo is almost incredulous. “Why do you _read_ that _shit_?”

“Don’t you?”

“ _No!_ ” Theo laughs again, almost as if he never stopped. “Why do you think we have media outreach people? We have a whole media outreach _department_. I would go _goddamn_ _nuts_ if I read all of that. I’ll be dead by the time I’m fifty.”

“You know, they blame you too. For _me_. For what I’m going through.” Ian starts to say _it’s not your fault and it’s not fair_ , but Theo’s right there, and Ian can barely keep up with him.

“God, I get blamed for everything. If Jon falls down the dugout stairs tomorrow, I’ll get blamed for that. Scheduling mistakes, whatever nonsense Manfred’s on about-“ Theo counts on his fingers, “-whatever new toy St. Louis has in their bullpen, the infield fly rule…”

“Even bad weather?” Ian asks.

“Oh, and bad umpiring, too. There’s that _pesky human nature_ again, or something. Always gotta have an _opinion._ ”

“ _Bullshit_ opinions. That’s some hilarious bullshit.”

“It’s all hilarious bullshit. Ian Happ should be demoted to Single-A. Ian Happ should be traded to the Yankees for a bag of baseballs! Ian Happ is the Anti-Christ! Right?”

“Right!” Ian says and tees off again, and, just as before, he slices his shot…and he’s back in the fucking drink. “Although I think I might golf better in the Bronx. This is getting pretty bad.”

_Ian wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he’s really enjoying this, enjoying not having to be the walking epitome of shy stoicism for a few hours. Always, no matter what he feels, it’s like he’s lugging around a suit of armor, heavy and borderline immobilizing, behind which everything has to fit. And now, suddenly, everything feels strangely loose and ill-fitting._

It’s while Ian’s groping around in his bag for another ball, that his eyes meet Theo’s. Theo’s eyes are blue, a dark, intense blue, and Ian startles, drops half his balls, and manages to kick them all over the green.

“Well, thank God you don’t field like that, or we’d have a real problem here.” Theo says.

“You’re the _worst,_ you know that? The _worst_.”

“No, that would be your hand-eye coordination today.”

“Dude, you’re five over already and playing like you’re _stoned._ ”

“Hey, careful what you say there, Rook.”

“Rook? What year is this, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I never know what year it is anymore.”

It’s a sort of _escalation_ , or maybe a de-escalation, and Ian’s just losing it in response. They’re both failing horrendously at actually playing golf, just standing around, clogging up the fifth hole and losing track of the score-card and reveling in…whatever absurdity this is. 

The corners of Ian’s mouth turn up in a smile, and he just sort of _unknots,_ and feels his face warm and soften in a way he can’t really grasp.

***

The Cubs had lost, dropping the third game of the Marlins series 3-1, but Ian had singled (twice!), been bunted onto second, advanced to third on a wild pitch, and scored on Kris’ sacrifice fly.

His batting average is now 0.206. It’s a _start._

It’s late, probably around one, and Ian knows he should try and get some sleep with a day game coming up tomorrow. But he can’t seem to decompress enough to drop out, because something in his head is going _ever-so-slightly_ haywire.

It had been between the third and fourth innings, where everyone was walking around idly and chewing the fat in the dugout, where Ian’s mind was allowed to run unfettered for a few minutes…

…and Ian had realized that Theo makes him feel, well, funny inside.

Not panicky, or outright scared, or creeped out, or anything like that, but some mixture of _nervousness_ and _euphoria_ with no clear demarcation between; something that’s now announcing its presence in his at-bats and his desire to sleep; something just _there_ enough to hold _sway_ over him.

He doesn’t _know_ what it is, so, like anything he doesn’t quite get, he thinks about it. And the more Ian thinks, the more he realizes that Theo _doesn’t make any sense_. There’s something almost paradoxical about how someone as powerful as Theo can be so _young_ and _accessible_ , how he can be ruthless and insanely charismatic and traditionalist and contrarian and all of that and _none of that_ at the same time, like he’s a shape-shifting contradiction. Not in a way that’s dishonest or duplicitous, but _whatever_ it is, it’s really hard for Ian to clarify. Talking to Theo is very different than talking to Joe; there’s something open and off-the-record and painlessly aware about it. Maybe Ian’s just never met anyone quite like him before.

Hell, Ian isn’t even sure how just playing golf with him is simultaneously an intellectual wind-sprint and an exercise in extreme silliness, but it _is_.

Ian finds himself wondering what Theo is doing _right now,_ but his imagination can’t seem to settle on whether he’s in bed, like Ian, or in his office, studying some random equation on his whiteboard and listening to Serbian house music (or whatever esoteric shit he just _knows_ Theo’s got to be into).

Ian sighs, chuckles to himself and rolls over.

His thoughts are _accelerating_. Theo is uproariously funny and competitive and admirable and absolutely _fascinating_ , and Ian wants to spend more time with him and just…observe him with near-anthropological curiosity. And Theo is _attractive_ , really attractive, and that’s an _objective fact_ , and Ian’s not going to _lie_ to himself about that even though he feels himself starting to flush, right across his face and right down his neck. God _damn._

When he gets to the part where he imagines Theo seeing him like this, tightly-wound and hot, his eyes closed and heat just _flaring_ through him, Ian visualizes a big, red _STOP_ sign.

He tries to get his mind tries to slam on the brakes, but it’s all screeching and backfiring and burning rubber, all right in front of somewhere he just _shouldn’t_ go. He’s laughing out loud. It’s _ludicrous_. _Misguided. Nonsensical._

No. C’mon. _No._ No.

But Ian feels like he’s about to erupt into flames, and really, what’s the harm in _thoughts_ , just _renegade_ _thoughts_ , when he’s lying here, sweating, shirtless, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his shorts.

Ian turns off the light, and his brain _floors_ it, pealing off into the wild and dangerous at frightening speed.

***

**Thursday.**

Thursday is a massive setback.

The Marlins are fairly low-wattage as far as power goes, and Jon, Steve, and Pedro had handled them easily. The Cubs’ two runs had come when Anthony got under one in the fourth. Kris, who had been on first, just stood there and watched it scream out onto Waveland Avenue. 

The Cubs won 2-0, but Ian didn't record a hit from either side of the plate. The pitching was just exceptionally good, but he had gotten hotter and more agitated as the game progressed. Three strikeouts. _Four_ strikeouts. Then he booted a grounder hit _right to him_ at second like he had bricks for hands. He just wanted it to be over as soon as possible.

He was hyper-focusing _again_. Theo was watching, somewhere, and Ian didn’t want Theo to see any of it, to see him suffering, foundering and rudderless out there; _Theo_ didn’t deserve to be _punished_ like that, and Ian’s shocked - still! - that he ever thought down those damn lines - _any_ of them! - to begin with, and it disturbs him.

_All of it_ disturbs him.

_Maybe he’s slumping again. Maybe Tuesday and Wednesday were just statistical noise, maybe nothing is working, and nothing will ever work…_

Even now, it’s all re-solidified into an immovable block, right in the forefront of his mind, and it’s like he’s _right back to where he was,_ and in a cataclysmically bad mood on top of it.

“You’re still thinking about it.” Theo tells him on the thirteenth hole of the Glen Club, around 5:30 PM. “Seriously, stop _thinking_ about it. You just have to let it go. These things come in fits and starts.” 

“What, so _you_ never get upset when things don’t go well at work?” Ian replies as he heads back toward the golf cart and his bag. 

“Yeah, but there’s something to be said about having just a little bit of…selective amnesia sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to just forget when every day _it’s the same result_.” 

“What do you mean, same result?” Theo asks. “You’re irrational. This shit’s not pre-determined. You’re not living in _Groundhog Day_ , if you get the reference. Always gotta get a Bill Murray reference somewhere in there.”

“C’mon, you _know_ what I mean.” Ian pulls off his golf gloves and chucks them, defeatedly, somewhere into the back of the cart. He’s playing really poorly _here too_ , just like he was a couple hours ago, some sort of, piteous exercise in life imitating art. 

“You know, for someone so young, you are really pessimistic.” 

Theo swings and hooks his shot badly. The sound of the ball rustling through the newly-grown leaves of a nearby tree disturbs the quiet evening air. 

“Ah, _screw_ it.” Theo groans. 

“And for an executive, you’re a really shitty golfer sometimes.” Ian snaps back. 

Theo fights something that sounds like a giggle. “Hey, I actually _like_ that. A joke. Maybe we’re finally making some real progress on you not being _so damn serious_ all the time.”

“No offense, but this really isn’t too funny right now.” 

“So why is it then?” Theo sets off toward the rough, maybe to look for the ball, or maybe to get out of the sun. Ian follows a step behind him. “Why _are_ you so dead goddamned serious all the time?”

At first, Ian doesn’t say anything. Everything inside him feels uneasy and ill-defined, like a month’s worth of time couldn’t clear it up. “It’s just…just…”

“Ian, you know anything you tell me stays here. Take your time.” 

They both walk slowly at the edge of the woody prairie beyond. A cloud rolls in and blocks the sun. The breeze feels good. Theo finally takes off his sunglasses.

“I think…I’m serious because nobody takes me seriously.” Ian finally says, rather flatly. “Everywhere I go here, I’m the youngest in the room. I’m just some kid, some _kid_ who isn’t ready to do this, some _kid_ who has to prove everything, who doesn’t have it figured out, who might never get it figured out, and…”

“I understand.” Theo interrupts. 

“What do you understand about that?” 

“What that’s _like._ ”  Theo turns around and suddenly holds the firmest eye contact that he can. “Shit, I empathize so much that I almost wish I _couldn’t_.”

“Then…don’t?” Ian says slowly. He blinks a couple times, like it might break Theo’s concentration.

“That’s not so easy.” Theo looks off into the distance for a second. “You might know, but when they first hired me in Boston, to be the GM, I was _28._ So yeah. I _do_ get that whole youngest-in-the-room thing. I get being the stupid obnoxious kid that nobody trusts. I _get_ all that.”

And now Ian feels guilty, like he should’ve just said nothing.

“Well _Shit._ That’s…one perspective, I guess.” Ian chuckles self-consciously. “Shit.” 

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to try and make light of your situation or anything. It’s all right.” Theo is staring Ian down, sultry blue eyes stabbing right to the back of Ian’s soul and right through the other side, like this is all somehow the most intimate thing he’s ever shared with anyone. Ian’s heart is beating inappropriately fast.  

“Is it?” 

“Well, that’s a stupid question. A _really_ goddamned stupid question.” Theo smiles. “Come here.”

Ian takes a stop closer, and without any warning, Theo pulls him into a surprisingly hard hug, and Ian is immediately overwhelmed and gulped down whole by _that something_ that he’s now actively trying to not feel. What he felt last night. Revved up. Spitting nitro into the engine. _Stop_ , he tells himself. _Just stop!_

“You know, I like you.” Theo says, patting Ian on the back. “I’ve enjoyed this. A lot. I _really_ like you.”

God, there’s almost something a little dark and teasing about his voice, and Ian really can’t help it. Maybe he’s just seeking a little solace, or it’s a moment of weakness, a 200-proof shot of poor impulse control, but Ian leans in and lets his lips press, soft and hot, right into the side of Theo’s neck, and - oh _fuck_.

Interestingly, Theo doesn’t really seem to _object_ ; he just seems a bit surprised.

“So is _that_ what this is all about?”

But Ian’s already five feet away, knee-deep in the grass, his hands balled into fists on either side of his head. “Shit, fucking _shit._ I shouldn’t have…shit, I’m sorry, I…”

_Well, now he’s_ really _stepped in it._

But he feels Theo’s arms close around his waist from behind, and Theo’s actually really goddamn _strong_ , and tears are starting to boil up in the corner of Ian’s eyes and his nerves are raw, aroused and sparking uncontrollably, and now _everything’s totally_ _ruined_.

“Just breathe, like I told you.” Theo instructs him, voice gentle, his hand pressed on the small of Ian’s back. “Jesus, you’re _so_ tense, Ian. Just tension. It’s okay.” Theo rubs the heel of his palm up Ian’s spine and the hairs on Ian’s neck bristle. “I got you. It’s _okay_.”

The clouds have at last obscured the sky, and the birds have all stopped singing. In Ian’s head, all he can hear are the _clunks_ and _thuds_ of all of his heavy armor falling to the floor. 

***

No matter what Theo had told him, Ian _really_ shouldn’t have done _that_. 

It’s not like this kind of thing hasn’t happened with the Cubs before. No, _not_ Kris and Anthony, as everyone thinks - they’re both completely straight and are just as close as friends can be. But it’s pretty obvious that Jason still pines away over Dex (in a rather…ambiguous fashion). There was also that night before the NLDS where Schwarbs drank too much and said _something_ about Albert, and Ian’s had his suspicions that once and a while the bullpen - a group of perpetual ass-slappers and near-flirtatious pranksters - just draws names at the end of the night. Wondering where friendship ends and attraction begins, and testosterone-fueled horseplay, and alpha-male-beta-male dynamics with homoerotic undertones are all _normal_ phenomena. Being in the Majors and liking other guys is a normal phenomenon. Ian’s long past that.

But _he’s_ the irresponsible kid, _he’s_ the odd one out here, and _he_ had, in the course of a couple hundred milliseconds, gone from Ian Happ, total doofus on the field, to Ian Happ, the Front Office’s Biggest Human Resources Nightmare.

What was even it _for?_ Some strange admiration, or some hero-worship complex that got filtered through all of his stress and transmuted into…well, _whatever_ he’d call this particular way his brain has decided to rebel against him?

It was astoundingly stupid. And blind. And dangerous. And _wildly_ unethical, _Jesus_ _Christ! Ian, what the fuck did you do?!_

And now, he may have just taken his future with the Cubs and heaved it into Lake Michigan. 

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit,_ shit.

“Shit.” Ian says, out loud.

“You okay?” Ben taps him on the shoulder. The sounds and sights of the bar, a dim, noisy Old Town joint that his teammates are fond of, whirl quickly back into focus. Of course, he’s far enough away from Wrigleyville that nobody _here_ would ever suspect his spacing out to be anything more than inattentiveness.

“Y-yeah.” Ian says. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“You were kind of zoning out for a minute there. How’s spring on Jupiter?” Ben (and his batting average of 0.302) jokes.

Anthony (and his fifteen gold gloves, or whatever) is God-knows how many beers in, and he’ll always take a good-natured jab at anyone when he's been drinking. 

“Naw, Zobs, he’ll go to Jupiter as soon as he gets done trying out for the fuckin’ PGA Tour.” Anthony slurs a little. “Someone wanna get Tiger Woods a drink over here?” 

“Assuming he’s actually old enough to drink.” Comes a snort from Kris (the current Major League leader in doubles!)  

_On and on and_ on _they go, like this, whenever they all go out together. They’re his teammates. He’s one of them. Of course, they mean no harm by it. Just a little ribbing; boys will be boys. They love him._ Right _?_

This particular night ends with Ian in the men’s room, looking at his own reflection and rubbing warm water around his eyes. 

Ian turns off the tap and pauses for a second. 

He remembers what happened, just five whole hours ago, and he _shudders_ from his head to his feet. A sense of excitement and longing, it’s awesomely, _terrifyingly_ real, and it causes his head to slump back into an exhausted groan.

_God almighty._

No, it’s not just a rogue thought or coping mechanism. Ian absolutely _wants_ Theo.

***

**Friday.**

Ian hasn’t gotten any calls, or any texts, or that “I _know_ what you’re up to” glance that Joe occasionally will give someone when he suspects they’re not-quite-innocent.

(So he’s probably not getting traded, at any rate, even though that’s probably news that Joe would deliver, _not_ Theo).

On the surface, there’s nothing surreptitious going on at all; it’s business as usual.

They’re in a conference room, him and Ben and Vic, two hours before the game, watching videos of the Brewers’ pitchers on Ben’s iPad. Just a catcher and two utility guys - three switch hitters comparing the righties and the lefties. Nothing to see here.

Vic’s blabbering on about someone’s changeup, and right now, Ian isn’t listening.

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because at this moment, he _can’t_. Ian’s a cork thrown into a drain, entirely at the mercy of something he just can’t control.

Now that he did what he did, _of course_ he wants to do it again. Ian wonders what he would’ve done had he not stopped himself. He wished he _hadn’t_. He’d have kept going, with his mouth and his hands and continued right down that road and gotten lost in every dark alley on the way, lost completely in _Theo_ , right there, right on the edge of the thirteenth hole at the Glen Club. It’s a hell of a thought.

He doesn’t even think about when or where Theo might have stopped him, because he stopped himself. _Theo_ didn’t _stop him. God damn, Theo didn’t stop him, and Theo actually held him and talked him through it, like he actually_ accepted _it - or worse - somehow_ liked _it, and Ian just can’t get over those facts. Not last night, not restless and turned on at four-thirty in the morning, and not now._

“Wait.” Ben says, breaking the silence. “Let’s see that again.”

Vic swipes his hand back and forth across the bottom of the video as they watch the delivery of one of Milwaukee’s new relievers.

“There.” Ben exclaims. “Slower. _Look_.” Again, forward and reverse, several times. “See that little funny twitch in his shoulder?”

“ _Not_ there with his curveball.” Vic slaps his hand on the table. “And he’s totally different with the slider. That’s just the fastball.”

“Unless I’m totally hallucinating here…bro’s got a tell.” Ben smirks. “Whaddya think, Happer?”

Ian just makes a confused little noise because he suddenly has _no_ idea what’s going on. “Uh, maybe?”

Ben and Vic show him the video; talk about _tipping_.

Tipping. _Yes. Someone’s tipping. Somewhere,_ something’s _tipping._

_He’d love to hear the barkeeps on Sheffield try and talk about_ this.

***

Ben was right, because nobody sees pitches - and understands pitchers - quite like Ben Zobrist does, and Ian realized after watching the video himself that he had to simply watch and listen and learn from the best.

Bottom of the eighth, and it was that same guy from the video on the mound. Ian had studied him from the on-deck circle, which was certainly an interesting little exercise, but then Ian actually had to go up _to bat_. Albert was on third, and Javy was on second, and Joe had stuck Ian in the cleanup spot because Joe sometimes believes in reverse psychology.

Reverse psychology had made Ian anxious. The lights were in his eyes, and there he was, standing there, watching this guy’s shoulders jerking around, taking ball one, ball two. Ball three. Breathing, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth again, and _again,_ and rooting himself right down, right into the dirt, and before he could even interpret what happened, the ball was bouncing around somewhere in right field and he had teleported to second.

It was loud, and it had put the Cubs up 6-1. Then Jason knocked him in, and it was 7-1, and _man_ , it always feels _great_ to use Milwaukee for batting practice.

He rewinds and plays it again in his head, his eyes closed, and he catches himself smiling - actually smiling about something baseball-related - for the first time in days. He’s - dare he even think it? - _proud_.

It’s probably around 11:30. The lights are mostly off. He’s the only one left in the clubhouse, sprawled out on the couch with his shit-eating grin and wandering mind and his zero situational awareness. Obviously he’s not paying any attention to whatever sounds the door might be making, until-

“ _More_ progress. I _like_ it.”

Ian opens his eyes, and Theo is smiling back, down at him, and _there’s_ a shot of adrenaline he didn’t anticipate getting tonight.

Ian scrambles to sit up, an uncoordinated morass of arms and legs and blood pressure that’s rapidly taking off.

“Shit, didn’t mean to _scare_ you.” Theo says, sitting down next to Ian. “Just wanted to tell you that you were _awesome_ tonight.”

“…Thanks.” Ian replies, and it comes out a wimpy squeak, like he’s forgotten how _talking_ works.

The few seconds of nothing has Ian staring at his knees.

“Are you okay?” Theo raises an eyebrow at him, and Ian shrugs and nods and trains his eyes to the wall.

“You sure?”

Ian actually _can’t_ respond. Theo looks _obscenely_ good in dark blue jeans, with his shirt untucked and hair not-quite-perfect, and Ian just _cannot_ handle it. There’s enough stress in the air in front of him that a chainsaw couldn’t get through it.

Of course, Ian can’t ignore the elephant in the room, which spends the next thirty seconds posturing and stomping around fretfully until it’s _right in Ian’s ear_ , and finally Ian just shuts his eyes and blurts it out and hopes he doesn’t require any further clarification.

“I _shouldn’t have done what I did yesterday._ ”

“Oh. _That_.” Theo says, like he wasn’t expecting it, but doesn’t want to avoid it either. “You _really_ didn’t offend me or anything. I’ve been doing this for a while and I’ve…seen some pretty wild shit happen when people get worked up.”

“What kind of shit? This kind?”

“All kinds. When I was in Boston, we had a catcher who had it pretty bad for one of the relievers, and just sort of…fucking lost it. Eventually threw a brick through the window of the guy’s car. A real soap opera, not that anyone’s ever going to do that here.”-There’s some uneasiness in Theo’s voice-“Or did you mean shit with…”

“…with _you_.” Ian finishes for him. “Have you ever…?”

“No. I’ve never been involved. But it’s almost like…” Theo leans into the couch and stretches out, arms behind his head, his knee bumping up against Ian’s, “It _helped_ you, somehow.”

_There’s that dark little lilt in his voice again._

“Maybe. Maybe it did. Still, I…” Ian doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence. _I shouldn’t have? I wanted to? I still want to?_ He’s a _mess._

“And honestly, I kind of liked it.” Theo says, right out of the blue. “So there really doesn’t need to _be_ pointless tension like this, Ian.”

“…Okay.”

And then Theo has his hand on Ian’s shoulder, asking _May I?_ , and when Ian nods, he starts rubbing lightly, and he only stops when Ian breathes out rather shakily through his gritted teeth. He shuts his eyes again. Whatever Theo is doing feels almost _too_ good, and Ian’s ability to deal with any of this in any kind of rational manner is rapidly fading.

“You’re making a weird face.” Theo tries to joke. “Is this okay? Why are you making a weird face?”

“Because you _stopped_.” Ian whines out the last word.

So Theo resumes, harder and with clearer intent, his hand kneading the back of Ian’s neck, and he guides his other arm around Ian’s waist and pulls Ian against him, and Ian’s arms are out, grabbing and pulling in responsive haste. It’s awkward, and Ian isn’t quite sure how he’s supposed to arrange any part of himself until Theo just sort of naturally rolls into his lap, his knees on either side of Ian’s hips, all of his fingertips digging hard into Ian’s back. Ian’s palm is trembling, tentative and soft against Theo’s jaw, fingers sliding behind his ear, and then he’s kissing Theo’s neck, hungry and slippery-wet until Theo encouragingly whispers _there you go_.

This time, Ian’s _not_ stopping, pulling aside the collar of Theo’s shirt, licking and then _biting_ like he’s _starved_ and _possessed_ until Theo eases him off with a hard, warning squeeze of his wrist. Ian’s movements arrest, and he’s struggling and shivering, mouth open and pushed right into Theo’s collarbone.

“ _There_ you go.” Theo repeats, voice struck through with arousal, his fingers stroking up through Ian’s hair. “Ian, I…”

Theo smells really good, but Ian can’t even place _what_ he smells like, and Ian is inhaling too much like he’s trying to figure it out. He’s half-hard already and needs some sort of release, some sort of _amnesty_. His hands are damp, ungainly, reaching for the buckle of Theo’s belt, and then Theo finally _does_ stop him, his hand sitting solidly against Ian’s forehead.

“This is…” He fights a little gasp, “This is probably a _really bad place_ for this. Trust me.”

_Tension?_ If this is about _tension_ , Ian might just _die_ from it first.

But he’s forced to trust Theo anyway.

_What the hell is he getting himself into?_

***

**Saturday.**

By the time it’s 7:30 AM on Saturday, Ian’s learned three things he wasn’t aware of on Friday night.

First, that it _is_ actually possible to be rendered completely sleepless by merely fantasizing, especially when your powers of recall are quite vivid.

Second, that the concourse at Wrigley Field is totally empty this early in the morning, even before a 1:10 PM first pitch. And third, that an overturned Gatorade cup from the dugout is not exactly the best thing to try and hit a golf ball off of (although it is hardly the worst).

A corollary to the third: there aren’t enough unobstructed straightaways in the concourse at Wrigley to allow the use of anything longer than a nine-iron.

The morning is gorgeous: high sun and cloudless sky and enough light and shadow to make it all the way in through the stairwells and gates. The weather’s warm enough to let everyone know that it’s May, but still cold enough that Ian’s wearing his team-issued windbreaker.

“Fore!” Ian calls out, and he hits his fifteenth ball (or so) somewhere toward the left field gate. It thwacks against a concrete support pole and rolls away.

“You fuckin’ dilettante.” Theo rolls his eyes. “That was a terrible shot.” He snatches the club away from Ian. “Give me that.”

His own shot is harder, and it hits something unseen with a very loud _bang_ and ricochets out the gate and onto the street.

“Shit!” Theo covers his mouth to stifle a laugh. A security guard peers around the corner through the shuttered gate and just tilts her head amusedly, as if this is somehow a common occurrence.

“And _I’m_ a bad shot? Ya think there are ball-hawks out this early?” Ian mocks.

“Maybe. Think they’d prefer one from you, though.”

A few birds call somewhere; the Red Line train on Addison roars by, far in the distance.

“So what’s it like?” Ian asks after a minute of a few more balls rattling around inside the concourse. “Running all of it?”

Theo thinks about it, and then answers simply, “Interesting.”

“How interesting?”

“Oh, _real_ interesting.”

He starts telling a story, but Ian’s comprehension of it is fading in and out because he’s just sort of _watching_ Theo, taking in all of his little gestures and mechanisms and mannerisms, how his eyes seem almost lighter today, and how he jams his hands in his pockets and licks his lips when he talks - and it all hits Ian like a 99-mph fastball right to the temple. He dissociates for a little while in the resultant concussion, and it suddenly feels about ninety degrees outside.

“-But really. It’s sort of like going for a walk through a cemetery. There’s a lot of people under you, but nobody’s listening. Hmm. Wasn’t it Bill Clinton who first said that?” Theo asks him.

“I don’t know.” Ian finally shatters through his daydream. “Was it?”

“You’re not talking much. Still…tense?”

“ _Maybe_.” Ian’s starting to break into a smile. “Although you know I usually don’t talk much.”

“Well, I can’t help if you don’t _talk_.” Theo’s smile is even bigger in return.

“You’re the goddamn big shot here. _Make_ me.” Ian taunts.

Theo takes two steps forward. He drapes his arm around Ian’s shoulders, leans in, and kisses him. _Hard_.

Ian’s whole world spins on every axis it has.

***

Milwaukee leads, 5-4. It wasn’t Yu’s worst performance, but it certainly wasn’t his best, especially that part where he grooved an 0-2 fastball to Aguilar. Ian has one hit, a leadoff single, but did not score because Willy had immediately hit into a double play.

Bottom of the ninth. 4 PM, or thereabouts.

Ian is losing a staring contest with the lineup card. It’s up on the wall of the dugout, where it always is. He’s focusing on anything, anything at all to calm the butterflies migrating from his head to his stomach, all more pronounced tonight than the usual bottom-of-the-ninth anxiety. From top to bottom: _Zobrist, 2B, Bryant, 3B, Rizzo, 1B, Baez, SS, Happ, CF,Schwarber, LF, Contreras, C, Heyward, RF, Darvish, P._

“You know the drill, bro.” Jason interrupts, cuffing him in the ribs from behind. “If they hang it, you will…”

“ _Bang_ it.” Ian emphasizes the first word.

“Ian!” Joe calls him over. He immediately clamps both his hands on Ian’s shoulders and looks at him in his customary firm-but-kind manner. “Just…” The corner of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles, “Do the thing and do it well. You’re okay.” 

“Yes sir.” Ian says, and Joe hands him his batting helmet and prods him out toward the field.

When Ian finally comes to the plate, everything seems to slow down to a crawl. The crowd is uneasy, but upstairs, for the first time in a long time, it’s just ringing silence. He sees Anthony standing on first. The first pitch goes whizzing by, outside - some kind of cutter that missed, badly - and the second is ninety-eight and about as dead-center as it could be.

He thinks, first, about _predetermination_. About true outcomes, hits, outs, walks, runs, results. He thinks about OPS and sabermetrics and wins-over-replacement and constraints, numerical constraints, social constraints, the constraints into which he’s held himself. _But_ _Ian’s not like that._ _Ian does not care what everybody thinks. There are no secrets, and Ian is going to break all the rules._

He thinks about Theo, and then he thinks about hitting a golf ball. _Easy. Right into the fuckin’ pond!_ And then he doesn’t think at all. He exhales, as if all his strife is unfurling out through is lungs. And he _smiles_. And he swings, _disarmed, open, and_ free.

Ian knows, immediately, that he _got_ all of it.

And it’s _gone_.

Gone in a hurry, almost as if it is escorted out by the near-painful crescendo of the crowd, _gone_ , right over Ryan Braun’s head and beyond the ivy, and Len Kasper is probably having an aneurysm up in the broadcast booth, screaming _Oh_ baby! _Cubs win! Cubs win!_

He’s under the clear sky, around the bases, and back to the center of the world that is home plate. Anthony’s lifting him clean off the ground, Willy’s punching him on the back, Kris is trying to rip his jersey off, Javy’s taken off his batting helmet and straight-up punted it toward first base, and there’s Steve and Monty with the cooler full of ice-water and…

When Ian remembers this, stretched out in bed three hours later, goosebumps run up his arms and a contented little noise escapes from somewhere his throat.

Walking off is _amazing_.

There are a few welcome moments afterwards, where everything inside him _isn’t_ snarled and warring. He falls asleep easily. 

He’s not sure how long he’s out, just that the buzzing of his phone, set too-close to his head, almost scares him right onto the floor. He somehow answers it, feeling like his hand is composed entirely of thumbs. It takes him a minute to acknowledge what’s happening on the other end. 

“…insane. Just super-clutch and insane. I was so excited I seriously almost broke my phone. You _almost_ owed me a new phone for _that_ and I hope you’re proud of yourself…”

“…Uh, what? For what?”

“Two words. Walking. _Off_.” Theo says.

“Oh. _Hey_. Hey, Theo.” Ian’s pretty sure his satisfaction with all of this is obvious, like there’s _little_ something extra besides just a very opportune home run.

“ _Hey._ How’re you doing?”

“You wanna play golf tomorrow?” Ian asks, sleepily. “Wanna go out to Medinah and see if we can convince them to let us in the place?”

“Oh God. I’d just _love_ to ruffle some feathers out there. Monday instead?”

“Sure. Why _not_ try something really stupid in the name of golf, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Fat chance on that. Why not sweet-talk the desk at the Four Seasons into letting us jump into the pool at midnight, while we’re at it.” Theo pauses. The pause becomes a tad longer. “…Actually, on that one, I’m kinda serious.”

“You are _not_.” Ian laughs back.

“No, it’s my turn to be all serious. Come downtown. Midnight. On Delaware, just a couple blocks from Michigan Avenue. Think about it…”

Theo then trails off and hangs up.

Midnight? That’s a _bad idea_. A foolish, jack-booted, _what-were-you-thinking?_ bad idea.

And Ian knows that’s a bad idea all the way though the rest of the evening, all the way up, out of his bedroom, out of his apartment, out of his neighborhood, and onto the 11:30 train.

***

**Sunday.**

At first, Ian thinks that Theo has to be trolling him. _Is that in character for him?_ Ian is uncertain.

Nonetheless, it’s twelve-seventeen in the morning, and the fitness center attendant at the Four Seasons, a disinterested-looking woman in her thirties, is having _none of it_.

“I’ll tell you again.” She says. “The pool closed at _ten_. It’s closed even on Pacific time. Please, just come back tomorrow.”

“I… _uh_.” Ian flails for words. He’s got to be the last persuasive person in the state of Illinois when it comes to things like this. So he tries the last-ditch, appeal-to-authority argument instead: “Is Mr. Epstein here?”

“…Why didn’t you just come out and say that at the beginning?” The attendant grumps at him, and waves him ahead.

The top-floor pool is the absolute zenith of Chicago luxury: all neoclassical columns, potted palms, and marble tile. There’s a freaking domed skylight in theceiling. Ian almost busts out cackling, because it’s the kind of place where a James Bond villain might moonlight with a woman half his age for some innuendo-filled scheming, which is an amusing thought.

Theo is standing in the middle of the pool, up to his stomach, wearing gun-metal grey swim shorts and a soaked “Try Not To Suck” t-shirt.

“You know I tried to convince Tom that we really ought to have a pool at the Zachary, but that didn’t go so well.”

Ian wants to ask _how, exactly, did you get in here?_ but thinks better of it, and instead tries to swallow the odd lump forming in his throat and be humorous, opting to go with _is it at least warmer than the lake this time of year?_

“Considerably.” Theo says, and silently gestures toward Ian to join him.

Ian shucks his sweatpants and hoodie, leaving his T-shirt on, and plows down the steps and into the water with an especially loud splash from his running start. He lets himself sink until his ears pop and the chlorine bites around his eyelashes. When he stands up and wipes his face, he notices that Theo is _looking_ at him. It’s knowing, almost conspiratorial, with a lot of emotion under all that. It hits Ian pretty quickly that _there isn’t going to be a lot of talking this time._ Ian just waves his hands toward himself, returning the same wordless gesture from a minute before, not stopping until Theo is actually in his arms, warm and dripping and heavy.

“That really was a hell of a hit.” Theo says affectionately. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”

Ian’s immediately blushing bright red.

“-You know that. Oh, you _have to know that_ -” Theo keeps saying. And then he’s kissing Ian right under his ear, his hand wet and tight around Ian’s wrist where Ian’s sure his pulse is anomalously fast. In response, Ian nuzzles his face into Theo’s shoulder and lets himself _react._ Ian lets his fingers twist into Theo’s wet hair; lets his heart speed up and blow out into every part of his body; lets his thoughts be completely commandeered.

“Should we be doing this?” Ian says, semi-serious, pulling up the bottom of Theo’s shirt and doing the same to his own so their bare skin can touch.

“ _Mmmm_ , probably not.” Theo replies, like he’s not quite paying attention.

“Do you care?”

“Probably not.” Theo repeats, right in Ian’s ear, and peels Ian’s shirt up over his head without hesitation. Theo then loses his own shirt, and Ian has to step back to gawk for a minute because it’s obvious that he takes very good care of himself. Not to the near-obsessive degree that Ian and his teammates do, but Theo is _just_ defined enough to make Ian wonder about that rumor that he sometimes hijacks the clubhouse weight room.

Ian lets Theo half-shove him all the way to where it’s just a couple feet deep, guiding him there until he’s sitting on the edge of the pool. He leans back onto his elbows. “Wow.” Theo says, running both hands down Ian’s chest, as if he’s sacred ground. “ _Wow_.”

He’s all over Ian in an instant, fitting himself in between Ian’s legs, hands on his ass, licking hotly across Ian’s nipples and down his stomach. It’s slow and dirty. All of Ian rises to meet his touch, almost against his will.

“So _amazing_ , Ian.” Theo breathes, his cheek against Ian’s thigh. “You don’t know how fuckin’ incredible you really are.”

Theo’s pushing up the hem of his shorts with his hands and his chin until his stubble scratches prickles of pleasure-pain into Ian’s sensitive upper thighs. Then he pulls _down_ Ian’s shorts, and Ian’s dick is really hard, proud and red at the tip. 

“ _Wow_.” Theo repeats. And then he’s stroking Ian’s cock from base to head, his motions firm and teasing. Theo’s got his other hand somewhere under the water, but _whatever_ he’s doing seems somehow incidental to Ian’s pleasure. He’s telling Ian how _he never gets tired of watching him_. _How Ian’s going to be an All-Sta_ r. How Ian’s _everything that he wants._ How _he’ll always take care of him_. He’s emphasizing his words with especially hard pulls and squeezes on Ian’s cock. Ian’s armor is gone, days-gone, and now he’s out of his shell and damn near shaking apart right out of his skin.

Ian wants to actually _speak_ , to thank him, maybe, or to egg him on, but “ _fuck”_ and “ _yes”_ and “ _Theo”_ are all he’s capable of saying right now. Literally nothing else exists other than the words exchanged, and the hot, slow friction of Theo’s hand, and his own thoughts.

(Like how he didn’t exactly have Theo pegged for a very vocal and expert-level provider of hand-jobs, either. But life is strange and random like that.)

And how, for whatever reason, Theo picked him, and this, all of this - all of his afflictions and their solutions and and the _very_ _point he’s at in the universe_ are because of Theo. Theo would do anything for him, probably anything for _all of them_ , and spread out like this, like an offering, in deference, in reverence, he’s Theo’s, _all_ Theo’s, and _world, it was nice knowing you-!_

“C’mon, Ian, _c’mon, c’mon._ ” Theo’s growling at him, inches from his face, beckoning him past the point of no return. Ian bites his tongue and comes all over his stomach, hips spasming as Theo strokes him through it.

Ian’s head is absolutely ringing, and it takes a few minutes to find a towel, and for the flow of time to return to normal.

***

When he comes to, Theo’s just sort of standing between his legs, palm lightly playing up the side of his knee. He’s doing that thing, that damned irresistible thing where he _stares_ again, his eyes blown so huge that they’re barely interpretable as blue.

Ian smiles weakly, a picture of devilish guilt.

“Yeah. Wow. You deserve to feel _good_ , Ian.”

“So do you.” Ian tells him. “Uh, you know, you could…uh…”

“Come on, you don’t-it’s not like you _owe_ me anything, or-“

“Oh, _don’t_ start that. I want to.” Ian says breathlessly. He curls his leg down into the water until his calf pushes into the back of Theo’s knee. “I want to, want you to…”

Theo’s saying something else, something funny about how he absolutely does not want Ian to think that sexual favors are an appropriate currency to exchange for walk-off wins, and Ian really, really just wants to say _please just stop talking and fuck me -_ but he can’t.

It’s not like Ian hasn’t _done_ it before - once, him and one of the catchers, rocking the bed of a pickup truck on a dark road near Myrtle Beach - he’s just come to be so quiet and polite about it like he is about everything else that he can’t quite verbalize what he wants. It ends with him, legs wrapped around Theo’s waist, half-mumbling it into Theo’s forehead, and Theo groans _mmmyeah_ and suddenly isn’t interested in giving an ethics lecture anymore.

Theo gets out of the pool and is going through his gym bag, which, by the frustration eminent in his voice, really needs to be organized. He’s finds a bottle of Astroglide, because _of course_ he’d have that in his gym bag.

So Ian rolls over onto his stomach, most of his weight on his forearms, and eases his legs apart. Theo gets in behind him and spreads them further, his feet nudging at Ian’s ankles under the water. Then Theo’s licking his fingers, being all exaggerated and liberal about it, and putting his finger just inside him. There’s lube - Ian still can’t get over that coincidence - and Theo is working him hot and open. And then Theo’s _there_ , blunt and primed, his arm tight around Ian’s stomach, and slowly, Theo slides home.

Ian’s relaxed, almost over-sensitive, and it feels really good, full and almost too-easy. Like Theo was _meant_ to be there, somehow. Theo’s most the way inside him when both his hands are on Ian’s hips and he quickly pulls Ian backwards, all the way onto his dick. Ian cries out, a surprised little _ahh!_ , his fingernails curving into the cold marble.

“Shh _hhh_.” Theo says soothingly, hands rubbing over the dip in Ian’s back. “You’re good.”

Theo’s slow at first, barely moving, almost as if he’s dampened by being still half in the pool, but Ian can tell by the way he’s breathing, sharp and irregular, that he’s already pretty far gone. Ian lowers himself onto his chest, arms outstretched, face pressing into the cold, wet tile, and lets Theo get in as deep as he wants. Lets Theo have _absolutely all of him. All of what he deserves._ Ian swears that he’s starting to get hard again because it’s…

“God… _so_ good…” Theo moans. “I like you. You’re _so fuckin’_ good, Ian-!” And then he’s faster, like he’s _needy_ , making soft noises that aren’t quite words, barely audible over the water starting to splash everywhere. And then he’s rough, frenzied with desire but not _dominant_ , slamming into Ian with hard shoves of his hips, again, again, and _again_ until he’s loudly biting out _Ian_ and _Ohgod_ and he loses his pace completely, bent over, mouth flush between Ian’s shoulder blades, teeth sinking into the skin there.

The room blurs back into focus. Theo pants _oh, shit,_ and Ian goes _aw, yeah_ , and there is no further sound but the lapping water and the slowing syncopation of their breathing.

***

A couple hours later, up in the penthouse, Theo had turned on MLB Network because he was hoping they’d talk about the Cubs walking off. He made it evident that he wanted to hear exactly what everyone was saying about Ian, but Ian had called him a hypocrite. Uttered _media outreach department_ , stolen the remote, and hit the mute button. Theo had gone _hey,_ _looks like you’re capable of learning after all_. Ian shook his head and said _well, as long as I don’t learn your damn hypocrisy._

“Or even poorer self-control.” Theo had parried back.

“Or maybe your definition of _conflict of interest_.” was Ian’s riposte, as he curled both his arms around Theo’s neck.

And they fell back into the bed together, and instead of watching television, they ended up telling each other every bad baseball-related pun and one-liner they could think of. Until things ceased to be amusing, the last of the day’s excitement bled out, and Ian finally slept.

Ian’s always been the earliest bird; always up at six or seven. Drove his minor-league roommates insane. It had become pretty obvious, however, that Theo didn’t share this particular habit today. It was around eleven, after three straight hours of alternating between watching some morning news show and watching Theo sleep, that Ian decided to tear himself away and head home. He’s supposed to meet Javy somewhere for lunch. _Waffles_! he said. _Horrible timing_ , although Javy didn’t know it.

Today is an off-day. Which is just as well, because it’s raining. Some storm system from the northwest: cold, incessant, and nearly Biblical in proportion. Ian’s trying to avoid getting soaked, pinging back and forth between the awnings on Delaware like a pinball.

A group of people give him a recognizing glance as he runs by. _Of course they’re going to look. He’s a Major League player. Who just walked the Cubs off twenty-three hours ago._

A Major League player is supposed to just grin and bear it. To work hard, keep his head down. Give the boiler-plate interviews. And when he gets sent to the team president’s office, to accept whatever fear of God is put into him as a result. He’s not supposed to go on a week-long spirit journey that begun with him sulking in Joe’s office, and has culminated in strolling right out of the Four Seasons in broad daylight wearing a pair of said team president’s boxers because he wasn’t anticipating staying at the hotel.

But Major League players are multi-dimensional. And sometimes life is just that unconventional and absurd, and full of shadows and grey areas and way too-bendable boundaries.

_And things are done differently in Chicago, that’s for sure._

_It’s like this in Chicago because it_ worked _._

And, well, Theo’s boxers _actually fit him pretty well._ When Ian thinks about it, remembers, he starts laughing, laughing unabashedly, and sprinting shamelessly through the pouring rain like he’s gonna drown in his own mirth anyway.

He tries to regain composure. He’s okay. He’s okay. _He’s okay._

He fights back the building mixture of panic and giddiness that’s taking hold in his gut, clamps his head to his forehead, and rests both hand and forehead against a pole at the entrance to the subway.

He’s okay.

_He’s batting 0.231. He’s okay!_

_He’s not really sure what he’s doing. What he_ did _, what he…_

The rain intensifies. The panic mirrors it. Ian’s got nothing but an uneasy, bewildered half-smile, and soon cannot hear anything above the relentless thudding in his own chest. 

***

**Epilogue.**

 The pub isn’t exactly busy. Greasy bar food and booze aren’t really anyone’s priority at noon, on a Sunday, on an off-day, during a _monsoon_.

Especially a pub on Clark Street across from Wrigley Field. Even the TVs are off, and fifty years worth of floating dust has come out of seemingly nowhere to settle over the place.

At the corner of the bar, a young woman - archetypal Chicagoan, plaid shirt and Cubs hat pulled backwards over her messy brown ponytail - is nursing a pint and trying to engage the bartender, a generic-looking white, bearded twenty-something.

“What’s the scuttlebutt?” She asks.

“You think there’s any good shit on a day like today? Slow news day, even. You see the game last night?” He asks.

“No. I went to an underwater basket weaving seminar.” The woman pauses, gauges the bartender’s reaction, and drains her glass. “ _Of course_ I saw the game.”

“Some ending. Ya think Happ’s finally over the slump?”

“Sample sizes and all, but sure looking that way. Mind if I get another here?”

“Sure. Yaknow, I heard Maddon actually sent him to Theo about all that.”

“Huh.” The young woman chuckles. “That’s… _serious_. Wonder what happened there.”

The bartender hands over the stout. “You got me there. No fuckin’ idea. But let’s hope it keeps working.”

***

A few miles south, Theo finally wakes up, light too-bright in his eyes, sheets rumpled, a chlorine-soaked T-shirt flung over the chair in front of him.

Like all baseball ops people, the first thing Theo does whenever he wakes up is check his phone. The results are usually the same. An occasional wrong number. One of his assistants double-checking with him on something. Repeated calls from a scout, which usually suggests some kind of liveliness in a minor-league game that he ought to know about.

Off-days aren’t entirely a reprieve - they’re merely a little dip in the action, a period to think too-hard about what happened the previous day. End of homily, time for the hymns. That sort of thing.

Today he’s got just one text. One word. From Ian.

_Thanks_.

**Author's Note:**

> Ian really is starting the season in triple-A, which some idiots I share a rooting interest with believe is indicative of friction with the front office. Let's fix that, mmkay? (This is all fictional.)
> 
> Thanks to my very good friend and anonymous beta who enabled the crap out of me during the entire month it took for me to write this particular moral slaughterhouse. Two things: 1. if you're a Major League player, don't do this (really, _don't_ do this), and 2. Theo Epstein is fucking hot, and I really don't care what anyone thinks. 
> 
> (Maybe I'll fess up to it eventually).
> 
> Edit: I didn’t get banned for this. Originally posted anonymously to the “anonymous” collection; claimed on 4/26/19.


End file.
